There’s a sad voice whispering through the speaker of my phone trying to convince me to rejoice because the lord has cometh and all I can think about is the moment I stopped believing in Santa. I asked for a red razor scooter that would eventually bruise my ankles, a reminder my footing was never stable to begin with. I wrote a letter to Santa and told my parents what I asked for. The morning of Christmas my dad rings bells exclaiming HO HO HO and Santa has come. I find my red razor scooter. He heard me. He listened to me. He loves me. And Santa doesn’t wrap so it’s leaning against the wall with a little note, “to Julissa. From, Santa.” and I realize. wow. santa writes

just

like

my

mother.

and that was the end of that.

i don’t remember a discussion.

no confession of my discovery.

it was a quiet realization we never needed to announce.

the voices in my speaker yell out

CHRIST HAS COME CHRIST HAS COME

O COME O COME EMMANUEL 

and for the sake of christmas i desperately want to sing along, to ring the bells, to listen to the soft sad voice begging me to rejoice and i’m begging myself to rejoice and i can’t help, but wonder if jesus were to leave me a note, would i recognize the font? and if i did, would i say anything? or just let the magic fade without another word?

yet i continue to play the hymns and when they tell me god bless you i say thank you god bless you too and i’m not sure if i’m lying. if this whole time i’ve simply been playing make believe to a man i’ve never seen, sitting in the sky.